“I’m not trying to take anything away,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even. “I just want to create a space where people can connect. Read. Share stories.”
The stationery owner doesn’t budge.
“Sounds like competition to me,” she says, before gesturing around the room. “Besides, we have the book club.”
Next to me, Ford shifts. His jaw tightens like he’s biting his tongue.
“She’s not trying to compete,” he says, voice low and firm. “She’s trying to contribute. There’s room for all of us.”
My chest squeezes. I haven’t spoken to him much about my plans for the place. But the way he’s standing up for me means more than I know how to say.
I glance past him, searching. Will’s still at the back of the room. Watching. Just watching. Not speaking. Not smiling. Not defending me.
That stings too.
A woman scoffs from across the circle. “Easy for you to say, Ford. You’ve got the ranch. You’re not worried about foot traffic or loss of sales.”
Something in me wilts, the fight draining out of my bones. Grace leans into the conversation.
“Now come on, Marlene …”
But I interrupt, voice trembling.
“I just thought …” I pause; the words caught in my throat. “I thought people might be excited.”
Silence swells, thick and stifling.
I push back from the chair. The legs screech across the laminate with a sharp, jarring sound.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to upset anyone.”
I turn and walk out—throat burning, tote swinging against my hip, flyers still tucked inside, neat and unread. The doors swing shut behind me. The echo snaps like the sound of judgement. With fumbling fingers, I yank the tote off my shoulder angrily and rip the flyers out in a messy blur.
They crumple in my hands until the perfect paper is creased and ruined—just like my hopes for the bookshop. I shove them into the bin by the door, hard enough that the lid rattles.
But it doesn’t make the ache stop.
Birds chirp in the trees, and the sun shines high and golden overhead. People wander past, laughing and chatting. They’re entirely oblivious to the pain twisting in my chest. A small sob breaks loose. Just one. The rest I bury deep in my throat, where it burns sharp and bitter behind my ribs. I don’t want to cry. Not here. Not over this—even though right now I feel defeated, like the world is against me.
I stand there for a moment, chest heaving, wondering what to do with myself. Ford drove me here, and the thought of waiting for him and his mum, then sitting in silence with them on the journey back, sets my nerves on edge.
So, I run. I head for the edge of town. Towards the bookshop. My bookshop.
Or maybe … not anymore.
Not if this is how the community sees it— sees me.
I used to picture that building full of light, warmth, and joy.
Now it just feels like a broken shell, faulty and cracked, with hope leaking through the cracks.
Walking through the bookshop door hurts.
It creaks on its hinges like it’s mourning with me, and the hush that greets me feels louder than any words. I don’t know what I’m going to do about this place. Will the community ever accept me? Will I ever see customers walking through this door, laughing and leafing through paperbacks, making this space come alive? Or has this all been a waste of time, effort, and the money from my Mum and my sister.
I didn’t run here just because it was close.
I ran because I didn’t know where else to go.
